


When in France

by classpect



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cliche bullshit AU, Falling in love on vacation AU, First legit multichapter, Fluff, M/M, Probably will change title, as usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:44:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classpect/pseuds/classpect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe I’ll find someone worthwhile in the city of love. Heh, I’m a hopeless romantic, I know.”</p><p>And suddenly, you were flying.</p><p>AS OF JANUARY 2017: I'm really sorry, but I'm not gonna complete this fic :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You stumbled through the aisles on the crowded plane, sidestepping the people stowing their bags in the overhead compartments. Thank god all you brought as handcarry was your backpack.

Aftererten minutes of stepping on toes and passive aggressive smiles at people who took way too fucking long to sort their shit out. You finally (finally!) reached your seat and squeezed yourself into it, setting down your bag and letting out a breath. Seat A13. You had booked a window seat (thank heavens) so, there wouldn’t be any preliminary jostling around when the other passenger, your seatmate for at least the next ten hours, decided to show.

Long flights were the fucking worst, in your opinion. You knew you should have just splurged and gone for a business, maybe a first class ticket. Heaven knows you could afford it. Welp, it was too late now. You buckled yourself in, backpack by your feet, headphones blaring music from obscure bands nobody had ever heard of. You were all ready for this shit.

  
At least, until the passenger assigned seat B13 showed up and opened his mouth.

Your name is Dave Strider and holy shit you have to sit next to this hottie for the rest of this long ass flight, to the city of love and also museums, Paris.

God. He had the bluest of blue eyes, the kind that should be illegal for being so goddamn breathtaking. Also tan skin, the contrast was pretty much making your inner photographer swoon. Coupled with black hair, broad shoulders and the cutest fucking overbite this side of beaver territory, this guy was pretty much a primo hunk of manmeat. You cringed internally, because okay, you did not just think that, what is wrong with you. He’s staring at you expectantly, before you remember he asked you something.

“Uh, is this seat B13?” he asked, again.

“Wh- oh. Yeah. This is, B13,” you replied, intelligently.

“Thanks,” he said, sliding into his seat with grace you could almost swear he practiced. You were pretty sure your face was at least a little red. You coughed awkwardly and looked away, out your window. Not before you noticed that he had a copy of the book you were currently reading, stowed away at the bottom of your backpack.

You decided that you would, in fact, be lame enough to pull it out of your bag as an excuse to make conversation, and proceeded to do so. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but you pushed that thought aside in favor of flirting with him instead. You were gonna get it ON with this cute and possibly French boy.

“Oh hey,” you started casually. “We’re reading the same book.”

He looked at you, curiously. A flicker of surprise and something else flitted across his features, but was quickly wiped away.

“Oh. Hey, yeah,” he said, smiling at you. Holy fuck, he had dimples, and that smile could possibly light up the entire airport and power it into the next century at the very least. Also, his accent was pretty American, so you ruled out the possibility of him living in France.

“How are you liking it?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been able to read it much. I brought it for the flight, see, but I felt kinda nauseous earlier. Reading just sort of made it worse and, I haven’t actually started on it. I am pathetic, it is me," he said, a little embarrassed.

You’d definitely say something about the light pink coloring his cheeks if you weren’t so fucking blown away by the fact that he made one of the oldest Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff references known to man.

Oh, looks like it’s time for a short aside, as if you haven’t already been doing this the whole goddamn time. Your name is Dave Strider, and you are, in fact, said creator and sole owner of the multi-million dollar movie and comic franchise that is Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. Almost no one you know has read back that far-- except.

He’s staring at you curiously, and you shut your mouth, unaware you were gaping.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, concerned.

“I’m sorry- did you just make a pre-2009 Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff reference?” you asked, dumbfounded.

He blinks at you and laughs a beautiful, tinkling laugh.

“I guess I did!” he said.

“How’d you read back that far?” you asked, incredulous. Your page location system was shit; no one could have gotten that far into the archives. 

“Oh! Well, you see, I’ve been following Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff for a long time! The creator, used to be an internet bro of mine. We fell out of touch, so, I got to read some of his early stuff back when it was just plain shitty. Not ironic social commentary like everyone thinks it is,” he said, laughing. You continued to stare at him.

“I don’t actually read it anymore,” he explained. "But he and I and these two other friends of ours used to go back and forth making terrible references just to piss him off. I guess it’s just sort of a part of my vocabulary by now!”

And abruptly, it all fell into place.

Overbite.

Blue eyes, framed by black glasses.

Perpetually optimistic nature.

General dweebiness.

The boy sitting to your left was no regular stranger, but in fact a childhood friend. The same childhood friend, who you’d loved, lost, but never truly forgotten.

This boy was none other than John ‘ectobiologist’ Egbert.

“Hey, you’re doing that quiet thing again where it looks like you’re in shock,” he said, grinning, oblivious to the sudden epiphany you’d just had.

“Well. Considering how I am in shock, Egbutt, I think it’s safe to say my behavior is completely and totally appropriate,” you dryly replied.

“Egbutt? What? Hey, how’d you know my-” he starts, when it hits him, and holy shit, his reaction is almost comical.

“Dave?” he breathes, cornflower eyes as wide as saucers.

“In the flesh, shades and preoccupation with the phallic imagery,” you replied, not bothering to hide the smile creeping into your voice.

And his arms are around you, and he’s laughing into your shoulder, blatantly disregarding the armrest digging into your respective ribcages. You decided to jump on the ribcage-abuse bandwagon and hug him right back.

“Dave! Oh my god, it’s been, like. Shit. Ten years?” he asked, pulling away to give you a once-over.

“Yeah, it’s been forever.” you replied, quickly feeling kind of bad.

You weren’t going to beat around the bush with this one, no. The both of you deserved more than that by now, him more so, you think.

You’d ditched him because you couldn’t deal with your intense homogay feelings for this boy. Just stopped talking to him. You honestly couldn’t believe you’d been that goddamn immature, in retrospect, but it had to be done. Fucker was too cute for his own good and if he ever found out he’d never forgive you.

He’d.

He’d hate you.

And you wouldn’t handle it well, considering how you were already suffering from sexuality crises day in and day out.

At first you’d just intended to gradually drift away from him, talk to him lesser and lesser and then enter his life again full force when you were sure your crush was gone. But, days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Even though it hurt, by the time you got over John you had cut him out of your life, simultaneously destroying your friendship in the process. God, 16-year-old you was such a fucking idiot.

But now he was back, pulling away from your tender bro embrace. And like hell were you going to let him get away. You were going to get his contacts by the end of this flight by hook or by crook.

“I’m sorry I never kept it up, with stuff at home and everything in high school it got kinda hard.” You said, lying through your teeth.

He shook his head, dismissively. “Well, you’re here now, right?” he said, smiling kindly. There was something in his eyes that said he didn’t quite believe you. So long as he didn’t ask any questions, you figured you’d probably be able to hold back.

John Egbert was still off-limits, though. It was a goddamn shame. He’d grown up fine, broad frame filling out nicely, and it made up for the fact that he still seemed a little shorter than your skinny ass. You bet he looked nice with scruff. You wanted to feel his face with scruff. You wanted to kiss-

Nope. Not going there. Not again.

The flight attendant announced that they’d be screening the in-flight video soon, and to please fasten your seatbelts because the plane was about to taxi for takeoff.

“So,” you asked, breaking the silence. “What have you been up to?”

“Uh, well, I'm doing some research right now, actually. Medical stuff," he explained, fumbling with his seatbelt.

“Is it any fun?”

He looked up at you and grinned, finally sorting out his belt. “Yeah! We're kind of doing this cancer thing, and working with people who were on the original Human Genome Project!” he said, getting excited.

You found the corner of your mouth curving upwards, and you allowed yourself a rare smile.

“So, how’s Hollywood treating you?” he asked, unable to hide his awe.

“Sex, drugs, violence. You know how it is. Most of my time spent is avoiding that shit, and trying to excel in my craft,” you pompously replied, shrugging with the burdens of an “artist."

He giggled, fucking giggled. Your plane began to move out, aerobridge moving past your window.

“Is that why you're on your way to Paris, Mr. Strider?” he asked.

You shook your head and the plane rolled past the terminal.

“Nah. I’m just on vacation. Drop some sick and possibly French rhymes. Snap some sweet candids. Walk around museums and pretend to understand what the fuck is going on. Funnily enough, spending all your time at home drawing shitty doodles drains you.” you spoke in a wry tone.

“Oh! Hey, me too! I’m on vacation, I mean. Well. I was kind of supposed to be here with my girlfriend, see,” he said, and the engines whirred. Your screens were serenely explaining something about emergency exits.

You quirked your eyebrow with a subtle movement. Still as straight as ever, then.

“What happened to your lucky lady?”

“She was cheating on me, and I was going to surprise her with a romantic vacation to Paris when I walked in on something I wasn’t meant to see, supposedly. So, we broke it off after a lot of consideration. I wanted to cancel everything, but this happened like, two weeks ago! So, I cancelled some stuff, but not everything, so I thought that I might as well just go. Use it to get over her, or something,” he replied, cheeks reddening. The closing jingle for the video played.

“I’m sorry,” you replied, quietly, and you felt a hot little curl of anger surface within you. What kind of a sick fuck would you have to be to cheat on John? Poor, sweet, considerably less innocent John.

The plane turned onto the runway. He shrugged and gave you a tiny smile. It lurched forward and you were pressed back to your seat a little, wheels rumbling as they rolled over the tarmac.

“Whatever happens, well, it happens for a reason, I guess. Who knows,” he started. The plane shuddered, nearing the end of the runway.

“Maybe I’ll find someone worthwhile in the city of love. Heh, I’m a hopeless romantic, I know.”

And then, you were flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, that just happened. I think this will be about 5 - 6 chapters. Comments/kudos appreciated greatly! :D


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is John Egbert, and it’s been years since you’ve seen heads or tails of this guy! 

Okay, that made zero sense. Let’s try again. 

Your name is John Egbert and oh man, the guy sitting next to you is Dave Strider! The Dave Strider!!! 

You have a lot of history with Dave Strider. So much history, you don’t even know how to articulate it properly. 

But Julie Andrews once said that the beginning is a great place to start, right?

Simply put, you and Dave were best Internet bros. You had met him in some chatroom and got his chumhandle, and you’d pretty much been inseparable ever since. Well. Figuratively, because the 3000 miles separating you two were a thing. 

You’d felt like you could tell him anything! And tell him you did. He did the same. Even though time differences were a thing he’d sometimes text you some shitty 2am rap and you’d read it and even jokingly critique the next morning. Sometimes you’d stay up all night Skyping with him and he’d show you the Texan sunrise or the crows that congregated outside his window right before nodding off. Or sometimes the both of you would fall asleep while the conversation was ongoing and in the morning you’d wake each other up and have keyboard marks on your face. 

And then. High school started, and the friendship you’d built with Dave just exchanging messages every day for about five years, began to crumble, to ebb away. You don’t know why. You remember sending him a message and then repeatedly checking your phone throughout the day to see if he had replied, and he did, sometimes apologizing and blaming how busy he was, and you forgave him every time he did, because he did have a life outside of you, after all. 

Eventually the replies grew few and far between. You decided to stop messaging him, and it hurt, because every time you typed out a message directed his way you had to stop and delete it, because he probably would be too busy to reply and you didn’t want to annoy or disturb him. 

He didn’t bother messaging you back. You never heard from or about him, at least until his movies took off a couple of years back. When that happened, you’d felt a strange sense of pride. 

You were the first in line to buy a ticket when it opened in your theatre. It was, expectedly, shitty. But that night when you went home you googled Dave and opened up Pesterchum and- 

His icon was red. 

You had clicked on it, fingers hovering over your keyboard. 

And suddenly it went grey. 

You’d shut the window and elected to stalk him online instead. You are the creep, John. It’s you. His webcomic had gone viral a little while ago, and he’d moved to Seattle. Huh, that wasn’t too far from where you were. 

You clicked on his picture and studied it. He was at some award show. He’d filled out a little, though not much. Long gone were the days of the awkward gangly limbs you remembered from pictures that he sent you. His blond hair was swept off to one side and rested on his ever-present shades. You peered closer. Huh, those looked just like the ones you’d given him all those years ago, gold rimmed, formerly Ben Affleck’s. He couldn’t have kept them all these years, though, and certainly not so well. 

You opened up Pesterchum again. His icon was still grey. What if you left him a message? It had been ten years, almost. 

You shut Pesterchum, and then shut your laptop. You haven’t really checked it since then, for reasons.

And now you’re sitting next to him on this flight, and you can’t help but take into account how attractive he is. Like, physically. Dave’s always been your bro; you’d never like him like _that_! That would be weird. You are observing his attractiveness with nothing but aesthetically inclined intent. 

You take a moment to stare at him and hope he doesn’t notice. His jaw is strong yet soft, and a smattering of light freckles peek out from under the edge of his shades. He’s clean-shaven, and you can’t help but admire that a little. Your eyes travel to his shades, and, they’re, alarmingly similar!

“You look like you’re having some pretty heavy thoughts there. Care to fill a bro in?” he drawled, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh! I uh.” You reply, eloquently. 

“Your shades, is all. They look just like the ones I gave you all those years ago, when we were thirteen, remember?”

“Well, they look like the pair you gave me because they are that pair.”

You suddenly feel incredibly flattered. 

“Really? Why?” you ask, astonished. 

“Yeah really. Well, I figured around the time we fell out of touch that my shades were already too much of a part of me to let go so easily I guess. It’s not so much of the fact that they were from you,” he said, shrugging. 

“Oh. That explains it then!” you said, a little disappointed. Not because you were hoping that Dave had kept them to remember you by or anything! Haha, that would be dumb. 

“So, where do you live now?” you asked, trying to make conversation, even though you knew the answer. 

“Uptown Seattle. I moved there from Texas for good, because my movies were being filmed there, and I sure as hell wasn’t shuttling between Texas and Washington every few weeks.”

“What? No way dude, I live like, ten minutes from there. Holy fuck, I’ve been living ten minutes from one of my oldest friends and I didn’t even know!” you exclaimed, laughing. 

“After this thing is over you better believe I’ll be hanging out with you a lot more, Dave,” you said, not quite sure how serious you were being. 

“Of course. Fact of the matter is I don’t even have a home in Texas anymore. You know that tool on Animal Planet who runs around the globe in really short shorts?”

“Uhhh. Jack- no, Jake, Jake English?” 

“Yeah, him. He and my Bro met in a bar a few months ago and hit it off really well, now they’re travelling the globe together.” He said, almost proudly. 

“Sold the house, practically got Vegas married, and Bro’s made it his job to screw the guy on every single continent. Antarctica included. Brownie points if he leaves marks that get overlooked on camera.” 

You laugh. Oh man, Dave’s bro was always a character. You suppose that’s where Dave gets it from. 

“So where are you staying in Paris?” you asked, trying to keep up the conversation.

“Uh, it’s a little aways from a lot of the major hotels. A real nice place though, from what I hear on like, Yelp.” He said, taking out his phone and showing you a screenshot of the address. 

To your surprise, it was in fact the hotel that you’d booked months ago! 

“Whoa, hey, me too!” you exclaimed, grinning. “I booked like, the honeymoon suite or something for this thing, because I was supposed to be going with my now ex-girlfriend, but I had to like cancel my booking and then re-book and it was a real mess,” you replied, remembering the fiasco sheepishly. 

“No way, dude. That’s crazy. Jesus fuck, it’s almost like we were meant to meet on this damn trip-“ he said, excited, but quickly stopped himself, looking at you equally bashfully. 

“Hey, maybe we can like split a taxi once we get there, or something!” You suggested, after a pause.

“You’ve got yourself a cab buddy, dude,” he said, holding up a fist. You knocked yours against it, returning the fistbunp. 

Man, meeting Dave on this flight was pretty sweet! At least, now you’d have someone to be with in case you got into any trouble before settling into your hotel, heh. 

The rest of the flight was pretty okay. It was really cold though, and the armrest separating your seats was disregarded completely as you and Dave curled up to each other and watched a movie without the sound. This was mainly because your headphones weren’t working, and Dave didn’t want to use his because he hated the sound quality. That guy is a space heater, you swear. He kept making you laugh really hard with his made up subtitles and you’d been shooshed by the flight attendants at least twice. 

Everything was alright, at least, until seatbelt sign dinged on and the pilot’s voice came on over the intercom, warning everyone about the slight turbulence that you would be facing. Man, you liked flying, but turbulence terrified you. You clammed up and moved away from Dave, clutching the armrest of your aisle seat tightly. 

He sensed this and looked at you curiously, but you were too busy trying not to panic.

“Turbulence. I hate it.” you managed to get out. The plane dipped a little and your stomach lurched unpleasantly. He stared at you for a second before ripping his blanket open and throwing it over the both of your heads. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, a little distracted by the grey wool that was making your hair stand up like you’d been electrocuted. 

“Distracting you, Egbutt,” he replied, opening his copy of the book you were reading, and reading aloud. 

His lilting voice and gentle Southern accent was strangely calming. You found yourself relaxing into him a little more with every page as you focused on his every word. His hand found yours and you held onto it, squeezing it tightly every time the shaking happened. 

Finally, finally, the aggressive rumbling slowed to occasional rolling, and the seatbelt sign was turned off. Your grip on Dave grew relaxed and he pulled the blanket off of you both, and then laughed at the static-y state of your hair. 

Dick.

Nevertheless, you shot him a grateful smile, when the flight attendant arrived with your dinner. You had to let go of Dave’s hand though, and you don’t know why that made you feel a little sad. The food wasn’t half bad. Dave had ordered a kids’ meal for himself (For the irony, Egbuns) and was individually eating his mac and cheese noodle by noodle. He’d also stolen your roll, but you didn’t particularly mind. 

You found out a lot about Dave on that flight. He still was tragically bad at sports, but interestingly good at whistling. He was surprisingly good with kids. His comfort zone was everywhere there was a Starbucks within one mile of another one. He still knew how to swordfight though he made his Bro clear all the shitty swords and fireworks that were supposedly in the kitchen, because he wanted to learn how to cook. The only things he’d been able to master were sandwiches, pancakes, and instant ramen. 

It felt nice, getting to know your best bro again. By the time the flight landed, it was almost as if the past few years had never happened. 

You filed out of the plane, laughing at some dumb thing Dave had said. On the cool escalator that was inside a glass tube after Immigration to the Baggage Carousel, Dave took out his fancy camera and snapped a few pictures of you while you were grinning stupidly. You pouted at him for a bit, but stopped when he showed them to you, and wow they looked really great! Dave sure was talented. 

It was when you were finally out of the airport and in a cab heading to your hotel when you decided that meeting Dave on this flight was one of the best things that had happened to you in quite a while.


	3. Chapter 3

Your name is Dave Strider and the graffiti on the walls here is really cool. You’re tempted to take out your camera and snap a couple of sweet candids but you know the cab is going way too fast. Also, you’re sitting next to that cute guy you met on the plane who pretty much turned out to be your ex-best bro from like ten years ago, which, as it turns out, is a little distracting. He’s staring out his window on the other side of the cab at gog-knows-what, that stupid doofy grin on his face as usual. Man, he’s probably just staring at the window and smiling because he’s here. Or at his reflection in the glass, you suppose, but he’s not that narcissistic. You know you’d smile at his reflection. 

Wow, that got weird and sappy. Moving on. 

Somewhere along the way, your sense of direction is pretty much terrible, as you’re contemplating jet lag whether it will affect your sleeping pattern all that much considering how you stay up until 3 on most days anyway, he pipes up. 

“So like. Do you have anything planned?” he asked, looking at you with those big innocent baby blues of his. Dammit, he’s so fucking moe it’s going to kill you. Okay maybe not really, with that strong jaw and shit. Wait, shit, he said something, what did he say. 

“Not really. I was kinda just gonna wander around with my camera. Really, this was more of a photography trip than anything. Oh, and, I have to buy Bro an ugly ass clutch from Louis Vuitton, just for kicks.” you replied, shrugging. 

So apparently you guys booked the same hotel, are here for the same duration, booked the same round trip tickets. To be honest, the hotel and the airfare was pretty much the only thing you’d settled here in Paris. Otherwise you have, like, no itinerary whatsoever. You just thought you’d like, drift around with your camera or something creepy and loiter-y like that. Take pictures of pigeons and children and statues and shit, because you’re way too cool for historical monuments. 

John’s probably the kind of tourist who plans weeks, maybe even months in advance, and insists on going to all the dumb tourist traps. All of them. He probably even bought cut-the-queue passes for the Eiffel Tower, the goober. 

He nods, considering this new information. A flicker of something dances across his features but it is quickly stifled, and you realize that you’re going to have to stop watching him so freaking intently. 

“What about you?” you asked.

“Well, remember how I said this was supposed to be a thing for my girlfriend? So, like. I booked a bunch of tours and group activities and stuff. I could cancel most, but there’s a few things that I had set in stone that I couldn’t really get rid of,” he explained, and you felt kind of bad for him again. 

“I guess I’m just gonna have to show up and like, explain what happened.” He said, shrugging, and he was smiling again. Christ, this kid was more effervescent than a freshly opened bottle of orange soda. You would know. 

It’s pretty late when you reach your hotel and you can’t help but feel tired. It’s still light outside though, which makes you feel kinda weird. You hadn’t realized that you were getting close to your hotel. You’re somewhere in the 10th district of Paris, with your hotel located at what seems like a town square or something, judging by the giant statue of some lady erected there. John’s sort of thinking along the same lines, because he says something about Paris being the world’s only city with a well-preserved eighteenth century skyline. Nerd. 

You pay the guy and split the fare, and then drag your suitcases into the classy joint. 

And what a classy joint it is, oh man. The lighting is warm and the waiting area at reception is maroon and shades of brown and cream and there is a chandelier dripping glass from the ceiling. John’s settling his room at the reception desk and he’s frowning a little. You amble on over behind him. 

“What do you mean, I don’t have a room? I changed my booking, I never cancelled it!” he exclaimed, slightly panicked. 

“We’re sorry, sir, but our system must have only registered your cancellation,” replied the receptionist, apologetic and heavily French. 

You think about it for a bit.

“Excuse us for a moment,” you say, cutting in and pulling John from the desk. He’s looking really worried and you put your hands on his shoulders. 

“Egbutt, my room is huge. Be my roommate, it’ll be just like college only swankier, or something like that,” you said. 

“But Dave! I can’t like, do that! It’s your room and that would be intruding!” he argues. 

“Hear me out. You room with me, and I do all the bullshit couple-y shit with you that you signed your ex up for but couldn’t bail out on. That way neither of us will feel like dicks, and everything’s sunshine and rainbows.” You articulated. 

He’s silent for a moment as he mulls over this, but with a sigh and a shy smile, he agrees. 

“That’s actually a really good idea,” he admits. “But are you sure it won’t mess with your loitering and taking semi-ironic photos of the sidewalk or something?” he asked, jokingly. 

“You kidding me?” you asked, joking right on back. “I’ve got the world’s best subject right here.” you said, punching lightly in the arm. 

And so you’d settled your living arrangements. You guess that meant that you were spending your vacation with Egbutt. Oh well, you didn’t mind. Not too much anyway. Not at all, actually, you didn’t mind at all. 

Only, there was reason to mind, as you soon found out, when you entered their suite. It was huge, with a kitchen, a living room with a couch and cable apparently, a giant marble bathroom, and a bedroom... 

…With only one king-sized bed. 

“I can take the couch!” he said, entering the room, setting his suitcase down. 

“No way, dude. I’ll take the couch,” you said, attempting to be chivalrous. 

“But it’s your room!”

“No, it’s our room. And I’m taking the couch.”

“No! Wait. Dude. You know I’m okay with sharing right?”

“Oh. Oh, okay, well, I’m cool with sharing too.” 

And that settled that. 

\---

The next morning, the first thing you were aware of was the warm lump that you were cuddled up to. Ah yes, your body pillow. You snuggled it a little tighter, shifting a little. Damn, when did this thing become a fuckin’ space heater? 

When it shifts, your eyes fly open.

You groggily paw at the side table for your shades and after a good bit of fumbling, put them on, remembering how you’re not in your own bed in your own room or even in your own continent. You also remember what, or rather, who, the warm lump is, and carefully disentangle yourself from him. He’s stirring when you sit up, mumbling something along the lines of ‘Five more minutes, Dad!’ 

You stretch and rub at your face. You think it’s around 8.30 in the morning, and you’re surprised you were able to sleep this soundly. You climb out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, grateful you’d set out all your toiletries the night before. 

Brushing your teeth clumsily, you strip and step into the shower, letting the warm water pretty much cascade all over you like you’re standing in a goddamn 95˚C waterfall. 

When you’re done with freshening up, you wrap a towel around your waist and step out. John’s apparently just risen, and he’s blinking at you owlishly from where he’s sitting up on the bed. 

“Morning, sunshine,” you drawl, wiping at your hair. You redden as you see his gaze sweeping over your bare torso. 

He mumbles something about the time and shuffles out of bed, shutting the door behind him. He is the sweetest petunia in the morning, it’s him. 

You quickly get dressed, and you’re all ready to go by the time he emerges, significantly fresher. 

“What’s on the schedule today, Egbuns?

He pulls off his shirt and rifles through his suitcase for a fresh one, and you look away, pocketing your wallet and phone, and then grabbing your camera bag. 

“Well. Today I’d planned a wine and cheese thing, but then I cancelled it, so it’s a free day I guess. I was thinking I’d just like, walk around. Maybe go to the Arc de Triomphe, it’s not all that far from here,” he said, attempting to tame his unkempt hair. It was not working.

“I need to go and change some cash. There’s a teller in the lobby I think. Breakfast is catered and ends at 11, it’s free for the both of us since they fucked up your room.” You informed, lying across the couch. 

“Oh, okay,” he says, offhandedly. He’s too busy packing a daypack, stuffing tissues, snacks, sunscreen, and his jacket in. Once he’s done, he puts the backpack on, and looks like a damn tourist. You want to laugh because it’s kinda cute. Instead, you both step out of your room and head on down to the main lobby, where you decide to have breakfast. 

Besides the incident where John made a dumb joke about your apple juice being Howie Mandell’s piss, and you looking so incredibly fed up with him that he snorted milk out of his nose and made a huge scene, breakfast went fine. They even had those flaky buttery apple turnover things that you like so much. 

So you changed your currency, John bought a phone card for his cellphone, and then you set out to explore the great unknown that was Paris, wandering down winding main roads and bustling alleys alike. 

You did take some pictures of pigeons and children and shit, but that’s all they were. Mediocre. Unremarkable. Everything was in comparison to John. Okay, that was kind of creepy. You weren’t like, taking photos of him obsessively or anything. You’d taken like, three. But they were nice pictures nevertheless. He had- he had this sort of wonder in his eyes. You knew you were being ridiculously sentimental but you couldn’t help but appreciate how he saw the beauty in things. Right now, he was talking about how all the streets in Paris lead to this one Arc or something that you were headed to, completely unaware that you were photographing him. 

And there was the Arc. It was pretty crowded, as tourist spots tend to be. You brought your camera up and took a few pictures, paying attention to the detailing. John had long since run along, yammering something about the inscriptions on the damn thing, buying tickets for you to go on up. 

After you were satisfied, you climbed up to the top of the Arc, up a winding set of marble stairs. John wasn’t panting. Huh, you guess he was fitter than you thought. You quickly halted that train of thought and focused on the skyline. It was, almost peaceful, being above everything like that. John tugged on your hand and stuck a few coins into one of those telescope things, motioning for you to peer through. 

“You see that arc all the way there in the distance? And that other one over there? They’re actually all parallel with this one, because the French are crazy about this artsy shit or something. I’m just a lowly medicine student, I don’t know so much about this stuff,” he said, grinning.

“Wait, really? Does that make you Dr. John Egbert? Wow, dude. Your name is redeeming itself, Dr. John Egbert sounds pretty sexy,” you supply, letting him see through. 

He sputters and reddens, and you mentally high five yourself. 

“I’m working towards it,” he said, sheepish. You brought your camera up again but he swatted you away. 

He wandered on over to the other side and you followed. It was relatively quiet here. 

“Hey, John.” you start, and he looks toward you. 

“Can I take a few pictures of you? I mean, the view is really great, and I thought, it would look kinda nice,” you say, trailing off. 

“Oh! Uh, okay! So should I strike a pose or something?” he said, giggling. 

“Be yourself, dude,” you said, and got to work. John wasn’t exactly a model, but he was aesthetically attractive enough. Aesthetically. Just. You are an _artist_. 

And there it was. That sense of wonder in his eyes. He kept fidgeting though, which was something you had to work with. It was okay, because the pictures came out pretty great either way. When you were done, you motioned him to come over and showed him your work. You were pretty damn proud. 

“Wow,” he breathed, staring at the screen. “Those look so great! I look like, like one of those models or something!” he said, beaming at you. “Man, Dave. You have to send me some of these later, you could like do this for a job if you didn’t already do movies!” 

You gave him a small smile and mumbled in agreement, warmth blooming in your chest, and realized that maybe you had the tiniest bit of a crush. Only a small one. Smallish. Okay, pretty sizable. Big.

“So, you wanna grab lunch? I saw a nice cafe on the way here,” he said, smiling. 

You nodded mutely, letting it wash over you. 

“Oh, jeez, you don’t look so good. Probably jet lag,” he concluded. He took your hand and led you down the stairs, saying something about taking it easy.

Oh god you were so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so this is going to be a lot longer than i thought it would be. welp. anyway, i'm launching my writing blog soon. watch this fic, it'll probably happen with the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is John Egbert and you are standing inside a souvenir shop, trying to get your best bro Dave Strider to buy a woolen beret to match yours.

“John, no, these things are tourist traps I swear,”

“So? We are tourists!”

“Yeah but this is lame.”

“But it’s ironic!” 

“It is not ironic, John. You don’t know jack shit about irony and you need to stop pretending that you do because this is just sacrilege, blasphemy, and I’m going to go full Karkat and lecture you on our way to lunch once we blow this popsicle stand just because—“

You cut him off by putting the contentious hat on his head and giving him your best puppy-dog eyes. This works, but you know he’s going to give you so much shit later. You don’t mind because he looks really cute! Wait, no, not like that. Dorky. That’s better. 

He sighs and relents, muttering something about you owing him one. You don’t really care. You’ve got a blue one for yourself and a red one for him because you know he likes red, and then he insists on paying for them because you paid for the tickets and also he wants to be chivalrous but only ironically. You roll your eyes and adjust your beret, and then adjust Dave’s too so he looks less stupid. It doesn’t work, because Dave always looks stupid. 

The corner of his mouth twitches, the way it does when you know he wants to take a picture. You throw up a peace sign and make a funny face, then laugh when he scowls at you. 

“Where are we going to get some grub anyway?” he asked, once you were out of the shop. 

You duck into a random cafe that looked pretty nice from the outside. 

“What’s so good about here?” he asked, looking around. 

“I guess we’re about to find out.” You replied, taking a seat. A waiter came by with menus and glasses of water. You thumbed through it, trying to understand the French, before giving up and asking for an English one. Dave persevered through. 

“Pomme de terre,” he said. 

“What?”

“It translates directly to earth apple, but actually means potato.” He said. 

“Some French guy must’ve like, pulled a potato from the ground and been like, ‘hon hon hon! This strange tuber looks like a fuckin’ apple!’” he continued, snorting. 

You guffawed. “Pomme de terre it is, hon hon hon.” 

Dave always had a way of getting you to laugh at the stupidest fucking things, even if they didn’t make any sense at all, whether it was a dumb meme or some dumber inside joke, he always knew how to make you smile. 

“Man we’re being so ridiculous right now, shut up, dude, we’re in France, and the last thing we need is some angry French guy with a tiny ass mustache and an inhumanly big nose coming after us,” said Dave, smacking your arm playfully from across the table. 

“That’s fucking rich,” you hissed back at him, trying to contain your giggles. 

Your waiter came over just then and you had to cease your antics to place an order. You got some sort of salad thing, because you weren’t all that hungry just yet, having stuffed your face earlier at breakfast. Dave got a burger and fries, and you proceeded to give him shit about it until your food arrived about 20 minutes later. (“We’re in France, and you get a fucking burger?” “The heart wants what the heart wants Egbert, you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”)

And holy fuck were the portions huge. Dave’s burger was like the size of his face, and was complemented with what could only be described as several large fistfuls of crinkle-cut fries. 

Your salad was a mountain of lettuce thankfully not drowned in too much dressing, though there were pretty much slabs of feta cheese hidden among the, let’s face it, foliage. 

“No but Egbert,” he said, interrupting your train of thought slash attempt to figure out how to make a dent in your salad. 

“Are they still French fries? Cause we’re in France. I mean they should be just fries here, because everything is French,” he said, dipping said fried earth apple in some ketchup. 

You wrapped your lips around a piece of lettuce awkwardly, and swallowed before replying. 

“I dunno, Dave. I guess they might be just fries here. But the portions here sure as hell have nothing on the rest of the world.” You replied, dabbing at dressing stains you were sure were accumulating at the corners of your mouth. 

“Wanna go halfsies? I can’t finish this.” He said, staring at his food, mildly overwhelmed. 

“Sure, heh. Man, it’s almost like we’re on a date or something!” you said, grinning at him. 

His face contorted strangely for a moment but he laughed along with you anyway. 

“Sure, whatever your derpy little heart desires, bro,” he said. 

So you went halfsies. And still couldn’t finish, because it was way too much food, and it wasn’t like you hadn’t been snacking all day Jesus Christ. 

You still felt kinda bad though, because there were children dying of malnutrition every single day, and here you were stuffing your face with far too much food. 

“Dave, we have to doggie bag this, and eat it like, later.” You said. 

He gave a solemn nod, and after splitting the bill, fancy monogrammed brown paper bag in hand, you exited the shop, contented, and frankly, sleepy. 

You yawned and blinked a little. 

“You wanna head back to the hotel?” he asked, stifling a yawn of his own. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” you replied. 

“We can like, catnap, because I am plumb tuckered out, man,” he continued. 

Thankfully, the hotel wasn’t too far away and after stumbling through the door and kicking off about 40% of your clothing, you and Dave crashed on the bed, falling asleep promptly. 

When you eyes opened, the sky outside was dark, and you’d somehow ended up with your face smooshed into Dave’s chest. You realized he was awake and pulled away slightly, but not completely, because hey, he was warm. 

“Hey,” you said, quietly. 

“Sup,” he replied, glasses slightly askew, revealing the marks on his nose left by the shades he’d forgotten to remove before sleeping. They made him look like a tool. A cute tool, sorta. 

“What time is it?”

“3.57a.m.”

“We slept for like, 12 hours,” you remarked, quietly. 

“Pretty much, yeah,” he said. “But on the bright side, I think our jet lag is wearing off.”

You laughed quietly and very reluctantly sat up, feeling strangely happy when Dave followed suit, keeping his arms around you. 

His stomach growling shattered the moment, and the tips of his ears turned bright red the way you knew they did when he was embarrassed. 

You snickered and poked his belly, and succeeded at hiding your surprise and awe when you hit hard muscle. 

His face scrunched up and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

“How do those leftovers sound right about now?”

“Fucking fantastic, man,” he replied, and you got out of bed to scout for the bag. 

He reached a hand out to search for the TV remote, and flicked it on, channel surfing. You set out the food as nicely as you could, not really minding that it was cold as you climbed into the warm bed with him again, paper plate in hand. Dave’s attention seemed to be monopolized by an old black and white movie that had been dubbed in French as he absently shoveled fries and pieces of lettuce into his mouth. 

“Jesus fuck,” he said, finally opening his mouth. “That guy with the ugly hat looks like he has ten sticks shoved up his ass,” he said. “And they’re not like, regular sticks. They’re like, cactus sticks.” He said. 

“The fuck is a cactus stick?” you asked, looking at him incredulously. 

His gaze flicked over to you.

“Y’know, sticks that have like, spikes and shit on them. They’d hurt a lot if you shoved them up your ass, I guess, which is why he’s such a dickbiscuit,” he continued, vaguely. 

You snorted and put on a snooty accent, imitating Sir Cactus-Sticks-Up-His-Ass. 

Dave took the part of his even more pompous wife, using his shades as a prop, and you invented lines for the characters whenever they had dialogues, and where there was a kiss scene, Dave blew a raspberry on your cheek, which sent you into hysterics, which in turn sent him into hysterics, and laughing deliriously at 4 a.m. in the morning, you realized that you sure as hell wouldn’t have had this much fun with your girlfriend around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh! sorry that i've been awhile, but i had exams and then i got lazy *flops to the floor*
> 
> anyway, in the meantime, i launched a writing blog! so, if you have questions/want updates/want to read the plotbunnies I occasionally come up with, go ahead and follow me at www.classpects-writingblog.tumblr.com! and if you really, really like me, then give my main blog a follow too, at www.classpect.tumblr.com.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day found you and John Egbert at the Eiffel Tower. You fucking called it; the cute little idiot did buy cut-the-queue passes. You almost wanted to slug him for being so adorably predictable, but he’d probably slug you right on back. Plus he had hammer arms. You sure wouldn’t wanna get on his bad side, because hot damn those guns could probably do some serious damage if you were unlucky enough. 

Instead you followed along, camera dangling from your neck, while he talked about the World Fair of 1889 or something, and how this thing was supposed to be an entranceway and whatnot. The weather was a little chilly, and you’d put on a windbreaker, but John was in cargo shorts and an embarrassingly tourist-y t-shirt. Stupid born and bred Washingtonians. Stupid heat-susceptible Texan genes. 

Nevertheless, Eiffel Tower looked almost ominous, towering black iron structure juxtaposed against the steel gray sky. It was almost poetic, but you weren’t about to drop some sick and definitely French rhymes here in public. That’d be straight up defamatory. Plus, all the people swarming around kind of ruined the whole mood. You were kind of glad that Egbert had splurged on the passes; at least you wouldn’t have to stand in this weather for what looked like hours on end. 

You figured you would probably drag John to the surrounding green afterward and demand an impromptu photo shoot of sorts. 

Anyway, you were currently waiting for the elevator to arrive so that you could be taken to the top of the tower, at the very front of the line. “It was like, all the countries of the world congregated here and showed off their best, Dave!” he said, animatedly descriptive. The elevators were strange and moved at like, a 60˚angle up two of legs. You were kind of curious about how the elevators moved and stuff, but a little antsy about actually going up the thing. The tower had been around for like, over a century, how safe was it really?

You found yourself inching a little closer to John when it slid to a stop in front of you, doors opening. Your guide led you all in, and you found yourself squished up to John. You didn’t mind, really. The reassuring warmth his body was giving off helped soothe you a little. 

When the lift slid shut and started moving upwards, you felt your stomach lurch along with it, and you scooted closer to John. He seemed to sense your discomfort and gave you a weird look, but like hell were you going to let him know that you were sort of scared right now, so you remained impassive, mumbling something about the lift being crowded. He raised an eyebrow at you but didn’t pry too much. 

It was when you actually had to get out of the lift and onto the platform when you started shaking like a goddamn leaf. You very cautiously stepped out of the lift, like it could have all given way any moment, before you followed along with your tour. John stayed within a meter’s distance at all times. You peeked down at the ground over the railing and whoa holy shit you were high up fuck. Your hands began trembling ungracefully and your impassive expression almost threatened to break. You were too busy clutching any handhold you could with a vice grip, knuckles turning white, every time you had to walk somewhere to pay attention to what the guide was saying. At most you registered something about Hitler. Oh god no one would be able to survive a fall from this height, you’d die and there wouldn’t be any body, only blood on shrapnel and iron bolts everywhere and- 

“Hey Dave? Are you okay?” whispered John.

“F-fucking peachy,” you replied, voice cracking a little. You cringed internally.

“Okay,” he said, and took your free hand in his own warm one. 

You were too stunned by him ever so casually just holding onto your hand, and occasionally tugging on it gently to get you to follow your tour group, to be concerned about the fact that you were standing on a hundred-year old rickety iron structure that could probably give way at any moment.

Slowly, slowly, you started letting go of the handrail, letting John be your safety blanket or whatever. It was nice, and his hand was warm and dry even though yours was probably sweating up a storm.

You started to take in the sights and sounds around you. Wow, you could actually see what John was talking about the other day, how all the streets in Paris congregated at that one Arc or something. You let go of John’s hand momentarily to take a few pictures, but took it again once you were done. He didn’t seem to mind in the slightest and simply twined your fingers in his. 

The feeling of vertigo was back, but you were absolutely positive that it wasn’t because you were suspended several hundred feet off the ground. 

\---

You didn’t let go of his hand until about 20 minutes after you reached at the bottom of the tower. 

When you did, your hand felt all cold and he gave you a weird look, like he was about to object to your letting go of his hand, but then thought better of it, and was now questioning why he thought it would be okay to question why you let go of his hand in the first place. 

Rose always said your imagination was far too active. 

John proposed that you go grab lunch from one of the food carts that surround the tower. You shrugged and agreed, and passed John some money to pay for your food while you scouted for a nice spot to sit. 

You found a pretty great place a little aways from the carts, under a tree overlooking the canal. Fuckin’ picturesque shit right there. You took a couple of photos, and just for the sake of it, took one of the Eiffel Tower in the most tourist-y way possible. 

John wasn’t long, and you found out he’d bought you both savory crepes and fried bits of dough with chocolate drizzled all over them. 

“What are these called?” you asked, eyeing the dough. The bits of dough were coated in chocolate and sugar, so you were pretty much cool with eating them, but you were curious nonetheless.

“They’re churros,” he said, taking a bite of his crêpe, and then making a face because it was still too hot. 

“What.” 

“Churros.” 

“These aren’t churros!” you said, scandalized. John just raised an eyebrow at you. 

“These sad, pathetic excuses of fried dough doused in chocolate and diabetes-inducing amounts of powdered sugar are heresy, blasphemous, pure and utter sacrilege to the name of the humble churro.” You continued. You were on a roll now, and you weren’t planning on stopping anytime soon. 

John just rolled his eyes. 

“Dave, you know how you like Hawaiian pizza?” he asked, interrupting your vacuous diatribe. 

“Wh- that’s not relevant.” You said. 

“Yes, it is. Just like how you like Hawaiian pizza, the Italians, who invented pizza, think it’s heresy, blasphemous, pure and utter sacrilege,” he said, imitating you. You scowled at him. 

“Besides, Texans didn’t even invent churros, the Spanish did. Texans didn’t even invent Texas, the Spanish did that too,” he continued, putting a hand on your chest. 

You looked down at his hand, and considered how hot your skin felt under his touch. 

“You need to chill your tits, Dave.” He said, solemnly. 

“What-”

“Your tits, Dave. They’re not chill.” He said, equally serious, eyeing you in an almost chastising manner. 

You held his gaze for a moment before huffing and shoving him off you, trying to hide the redness in your cheeks. He laughed hard, like he’d just played the world’s funniest prank or something, which he thought he probably had. 

When he calmed down, he took one of the tiny pseudo-churros and ate it. A little chocolate smear remained at the side of his mouth, evidence of the irreverence he had committed. You almost couldn't bear to look. 

“It’s not that bad, Dave.” He said, waving one in front of your face.

You remained impassive.

“Here comes the airplane,” he cooed, poking at your lips with the thing. 

“Dave. Dave come on, don’t be a dick,” he said. 

“If I eat one will you shut up about them?” you asked, finally relenting. His face lit up and it was almost pathetic but really it was endearing and you didn't want to admit it. 

“Yes!” he said. 

You hesitated for a moment before taking one and shoving it into your mouth. 

It, wasn’t that bad actually. Though sorely lacking in the fluffiness and copious amounts of cinnamon sugar more common in churros back home, they were okay. Still, you made faces and retching sounds just to piss John off. 

He pouted at you, frowning, and while he did shut up, he wasn’t happy. You sighed and scooted on over to him.  
.  
“I confess. It wasn’t that bad,” you began. 

“I don’t mean to say I told you so, but I told you so,” he said, sticking his tongue out at you before grabbing another churro. You rolled your eyes. 

“You got a little something there,” you said, pointing to the chocolate stain on the corner of his mouth. 

“Still there?” he asked, after wiping the complete opposite side of his face. 

“No, the other side, actually wait, I got it,” you said, leaning in. You leaned in and brushed the pad of your thumb over the stain, effectively wiping his mouth. 

His breath hitched and you felt him freeze for a moment as you stuck your thumb in your mouth, licking it off. He watched your eyes, and your lips, and proceeded to blush like a schoolgirl with a crush on the cute jock that smiled at her during math class. You realized how ridiculously suggestive you were being and quickly drew away like it wasn’t a damn thing. 

And as the blush on his face settled down, maybe, you decided, it wasn’t. 

\---

You stayed there for a while; lying side by side and watching the clouds roll past. You took joy in pointing out the dick shaped ones, but John always swatted you and went for tamer shit like bunnies and ponies and whatever, The weather was a lot warmer now, so you shed your windbreaker and used it as a pillow. 

He had cuddled up to you, the cute derp, and you’d got your arm around him. Fuckin’ picturesque shit right there. 

Later, you and John found yourselves wandering into a queue for a river cruise. It was a loop, about an hour. You boarded, taking a seat on the lower deck, John pressed up to you from ankle to shoulder. He was so comfortable with physical touch, while you on the other hand tended to flinch away, unless you were absolutely, positively sure you could trust the person. So you let him rest his head on your shoulder, and you leaned into him a little too. 

You watched the people sitting on the concrete banks of the Seine, watching their feet dangle over the edge. John waved to some of them. Sometimes they waved back. Other times they didn’t. 

John pointed out the historical landmarks and then went on some diatribe about how great they were. You made up backstories for strange-looking people. 

“See that bridge over there?” he asked, excitedly, pointing to one in the distance. As the boat drew closer you saw it had locks all over it. You nodded. 

“That’s the Pont des Arts. People, couples from all over the world bring with them a lock, write their names on it, and then lock it to the bridge. Everlasting love, apparently,” he said, sighing a little. You didn’t miss the sadness in his voice. 

“Hey, if it makes you happy we could do that. The love lock thing. Only, the only love to speak of would be our rad, decade-spanning bromance.” You said, in a vague attempt to cheer him up. It worked, because he laughed. 

“Nah. It’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to get a lock with you just cause I couldn’t get a lock with her,” he said, smiling a little sadly. You wanted hold him close and never let him go then, but that would have been weird. Though it was good to know that if you got it on with this guy, you probably wouldn’t be a small rebound, or something. 

You took what you could get and just put an arm around him. 

\---

It was 9pm, and still light out. What the fuck, Paris. You and John were currently on the way back to your hotel. You’d decided to take the metro, which was not unlike New York’s subway system. Only, it was rush hour, and you and John were packed like sardines in a can. You were the only one who’d managed to find something to grab onto, and John had an arm around your waist with the other on your shoulder so that he wouldn’t fall into you. 

He still did whenever the train jerked to a stop at a station, but you didn’t particularly mind. You just used your other hand to steady him. It was almost romantic. 

Eventually, you reached your stop and got off the train, but instead of heading to your hotel, John led you right past it. 

“Hold the fuck up, Dora, where are we going?” you asked, falling into step next to him. 

“You aren’t hungry?” he asked, grinning. Oh right, dinner was a thing. Your stomach growled in assent. 

He walked into a store with a red sign above it that read Monoprix. It was a grocery/convenience store, sorta, only on a really fancy French level. You picked up a bottle of something, and realized it was an aluminum Coca-Cola bottle designed by Marc Jacobs. Talk about unnecessarily fancy.

You grabbed two of those. 

One for you and one for John went into your shopping basket. John was busy checking out some sandwiches, and you let him do that while you wandered over to the produce section, when you spied the tomatoes.

Oh holy shit. They were so cute, and they were still on the vine! Those were so going into your basket. You ambled on back to John, who’d picked up some prosciutto and cheese sandwiches, as well as two containers of ready-made pasta. 

“Did you check that shit for peanuts?” you asked, casually. 

“Huh? Oh! Oh yeah, I did,” he said, looking up at you, surprised. 

“Good, I don’t wanna have to stab you with an epipen and rush you to hospital, you hear?” you said, taking the food and putting in the basket, heading to the cashier. 

“I can’t believe you remembered my allergy.” He said, smiling fondly at you. 

“’Course I remembered, why the fuck wouldn’t I?” you replied, taking out your credit card, using the opportunity to distract him and pay for the food. 

You handed him a plastic bag and headed on back to your hotel, crashing in your room after a nice dinner spent watching an old BBC documentary on something or the other. 

“We should probably sleep early,” he said, yawning as he threw his trash away. 

“What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” you asked, doing the same, then stumbling into the bathroom to brush your teeth. Dental hygiene was no joke. 

“We gotta be at this train station at 8am, and we’ll be joining a bike tour to check out Claude Monet’s garden in Giverny,” he said, stepping in and brushing his teeth next to you. You groaned because you hated early mornings, sending toothpaste foam flying everywhere. John laughed. You rinsed out your mouth and padded out of the bathroom, changing into more comfortable clothes before climbing into bed. All the walking from today had you plumb tuckered out and you put your shades on your nightstand before letting your eyes flutter shut. John climbed into the bed after you and you felt yourself cuddling up to him in your pre-sleep haze. 

The highlight of your day was probably when he wrapped his arms around your waist and sighed contentedly, falling asleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I've been having exams these past few weeks and life just got hard :U 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

[JOHN]

Waking Dave Strider before he’s ready to wake up is about the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

You’re all set to head on out, with your daypack and everything else ready. You even packed Dave’s satchel for him, because he’s such a lazy butt. 

As of now, it’s 7am, and Dave still has not moved from your shared bed.

“Daaaaaaaave,” you whined, kicking off your sneakers.

He grunted in reply. You didn’t even know if he was awake yet, jeez.

“Dave. Dave, get up. We have to leave in like, fifteen minutes. Dave, are you even listening?” you asked, getting a little frustrated.

No response.

You figured it was time for some consequences, and even though this was probably a death wish, you figured you didn’t have much to lose.

You hopped onto the bed, climbed onto Dave’s torso so you were straddling his waist, and began tickling his bare sides from where his shirt started riding up.

“What the- FUCK, Egbert, get off me, I swear to god, ahaha, shit, JOHN!”

You grinned down at him.

“Good morning, pumpkin,” you said, putting your arms akimbo, feeling highly satisfied with yourself, when you felt something pressing against you kind of uncomfortably.

Oops, that’s a dick. Dave’s dick. This was kind of embarrassing.

“Get off me,” he breathed, with his husky sleep-worn voice, and you didn’t need any more convincing.

You hastily climbed off him, trying to ignore the not-so-unpleasant heat coiling inside your stomach. Nothing was wrong at all.

Dave groaned and put on his shades, rubbing at his temples. You were surprised you weren’t Egbert kebab yet, because Dave looked like he was about to gut you.

You cleared your throat.

“We have to leave in like, fifteen minutes to get to the station on time where our tour group is meeting. I took the liberty to get everything ready while you were getting your snooze on. Claude Monet’s garden, remember?” You said, matter-of-fact.

He made a vague noise of assent before shuffling to the bathroom, clothes and towel in hand.

“And we’re just gonna have to grab breakfast from a bakery on the way, because you needed your absolutely unnecessary beauty sleep,” you said, following him in, watching him close the shower curtains.

You heard a snort and a mumbled retort, followed by the soft thump of clothes hitting the floor before he poked his head out, smiling tiredly, shades propped on his head.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing, Egbert,” he said, yawning. “Now, get outta here, I am but a maiden, chaste and pure, you and your sexy body need to leave before I decide I want you in the shower with me,” he said, turning the water on.

“Don’t take too long, nerd,” you huffed, going to go put your shoes back on, the strangest little bashful smile gracing your lips.

 

About an hour later, you were jogging into the train station because you’d promised Dave apple juice in the morning, but he also needed coffee to function, and the result of that had been one badly timed bathroom break.

The both of you made it to your tour group just in time, and you quickly explained to your guide that there had been a mix up with your booking and Dave’s name. Better to spare him the details that you weren’t entirely certain of yourself.

Dave, on the other hand, was pretty much enamored by all the trains. He walked around between the platforms, looking for a nice picture. You had to actually take his hand and drag him away so that you could board your train on time.

Dave’s hand in yours was kind of nice. His palms were soft, but the tips of his fingers had callouses on them. You twined your fingers together and led him back to your group. He stared at your hands, then back at you.

Things with Dave...just, sort of, happened. Questioning them was tiresome for everyone involved. You’d been thinking about how close you’d become in just three days.

You were pretty cool with that. You were more than just cool with that, if you were being completely honest.

“I can’t let you get lost now, can I?” you offered, grinning at him.

“Of course, dude. There aren’t many fine asses around that you can stare at otherwise,” he said, completely seriously. You scoffed and let go of his hand to smack his admittedly non-existent butt, eliciting a yelp from him as you all got in line to board the train. You were momentarily worried that you’d overstepped your boundaries because of the sheepish smile and light coloring on his face, but you knew it was okay when he slugged you in the shoulder and called you a perv before grabbing your own butt.

A few people shot you some looks ranging from surprise to amusement, and if you’d been paying closer attention, you would have heard a woman sighing at you about how she wished her honeymoon had been this romantic.

“Alright, everyone,” said the guide, a twenty-something dude who looked a little older than you and Dave.

“So, right now, we’re headed to the little town of Vernon. There, you have an hour to shop for your lunch. There’s a bunch of family-run cafes and bakeries, but if you’re going to go ahead and be bourgeoisie scum, there’s a Monoprix as well,” he joked, and this elicited a few laughs from the tour group.

“I’ll show you all to the meeting point near our bike sheds, and after buying lunch, we’ll go on a short walking tour of the town before settling down at the Seine, and then it’s off cycling to Monet’s house, between Vernon and Gasny,” he explained.

Everyone in the group chanted an affirmative. You yawned. Truth be told, you were feeling pretty sleepy, having woken up at six thirty and all. The gentle rocking of the train and Dave’s warmth in the seat next to yours had you nodding off a little. The train ride was about an hour long, maybe you could grab a quick power-nap with Dave as your pillow. You took his arm, put it around you, and put your head on his shoulder, making yourself comfortable. He’d taken out his phone and headphones, and while he shot you a surprised look when you cuddled up to him like that, he let it slide, putting an ear bud in your ear, his nose in your hair. It was playing a soothing piano mix thing. You think he pressed his lips to your forehead, but you were too busy drifting off to really care too much.

\----  
[DAVE]

Oh man, John Egbert is cuddled up to you like a god damn sleepy kitten.

He’s even making cute, contented little noises. You want to hold him and protect him and never let him go. Your heart simply cannot take how adorable he’s being right now.

You figure you should really stop trying to convince yourself that you don’t like this guy. Your crush is back, and this time it’s hitting you twice as hard.

You…you don’t know what to make of him being all touchy-feely with you. You don’t mind him smacking your butt, holding your hand and wrapping his arms around your waist in the slightest.

He’s snoozing lightly now. Poor guy woke up at six thirty to get all your shit together, and he seems plumb tuckered out. You run your hand over his shoulder, soothing him.

You haven’t been this physical with anyone since high school, and Bro sure as hell was never the huggy type. It’s refreshing.

The tour guide mentions something about reaching in around an hour, so John has quite a bit of time to get his beauty sleep. You’re content just staring out of the window, watching the trees roll by.

John said you were headed to Giverny, which is apparently the French countryside. You’re pretty excited to scope out Claude Monet’s garden. 

That’ll give you an excuse to snap some sweet candids. You actually really care about photography. Maybe after you work on some of your pieces, you can have them featured in a gallery under a pseudonym. That would be nice.

There was a pair of spry old ladies sitting across you and John. One of them smiled at you, and you found yourself returning it easily.

“Are you two on your honeymoon?” she asked, making polite conversation.

You blushed and shook your head.

“No, ma’am. Truth be told, we aren’t even dating. We’re old friends who met on our flight here and, things sort of just happened,” you said, finding yourself opening up. John shifted a little next to you, and you patted him again.

The lady smiled at you, and then at the woman next to her.

“Carol and I have been together for twenty years,” she said, looking at her partner lovingly, squeezing her hand.

“Falling in love is incredible, my dear. Make the most of it,” said Carol, apparently, her eyes warm.

You reddened but nodded gratefully anyway, and the ladies chuckled. Damn if Bro hadn’t taught you to be the perfect Southern gentleman.

\---

Half an hour later found you in a cheese shop. John had just run out of cut-the-cheese fart jokes, and you couldn’t have been more grateful. You’d just picked up a slice of Brie. The store-owner proudly told you that it was fresh, cut first just this morning. At least, that was what you thought he said, because he was speaking in French. You just smiled and nodded and paid him.

John on the other hand, was chattering with literally everyone in French. He’d only been reading some conversational stuff, but here he was running his mouth like a damn motor. You took his hand, which always seemed to stun him momentarily, and tugged him out of the store, the owner waving cheerily at you.

So far, you had hit the greengrocers and picked up red seedless grapes, olives, lettuce, pickles (to John’s chagrin) and sliced tomatoes, as well as the butchery for some deli meats. That was the cheese shop that you’d just left, (“It’s called a fromagerie, Dave!”) and John was bent on visiting a bakery, alternatively known as a boulangerie, apparently. 

Truth be told, John was the one doing all the food shopping. You were just buying what looked nice, which meant that there was also a bottle of artisanal apple cider in your picnic basket.

“So, what do you wanna buy next?” you asked, casually.

“A baguette, and some pastries maybe,” said John, idly. He was practically skipping, he was so in his element. You patted his shoulder.

“So, are we having some sort of sandwiches for lunch?” you asked.

He hummed in agreement, and ducked into a bakery. You could only follow along.

The inside of the quaint-looking shop was pretty incredible. Glass pastry cases lined almost the whole place, showing off all sorts of incredible looking things. It took all of your self-control to not start piling things into your basket and by extension your mouth.

John calmly picked up a few chocolate looking things, a loaf of bread about a foot and a half long, and some cupcakes.

And that was when you spied it.

A luscious, fifteen-inch apple tart; caramelized brown on the top, the red peel of the apples peeking through like some sort of glorified flan.

God it was the most beautiful thing in the entire store, the fine specimen that was John Egbert included.

You bought the whole thing.

John just shook his head at you.

\---  
[JOHN]

Around an hour later, you were sprawled on plastic picnic mats on a bank of the Seine, overlooking a bunch of geese and a broken bridge with an old mill, apparently on it. It looked like it was something right out of an art gallery, and you caught Dave snapping a bunch of pictures.

You’d made what were admittedly some pretty fucking killer sandwiches, piling everything you’d bought between the bakery bread, minus the grapes (which you were eating individually), pastries and of course, Dave’s tart, which you’d split with everyone.

Speaking of Dave, he was currently sprawled across your lap.

“Grape me, Egbabe,” he said, snapping his fingers. You giggled and threw a grape at him, which bounced off his nose, and then rolled into his mouth. He chewed it, and swallowed.

“Thank you, Egbabe. Now gimme some sugar,” he said, making kissy faces at you.

“In your dreams, nerd!” you said, shoving him off your lap. 

He snorted and papped the side of your face, when your guide spoke up.

“So, abstract art as we know it really started with Impressionism, which happened after the Renaissance. A ragtag group of these artists basically discovered that you didn’t need elaborate paintings of men and women doing crazy things to get a reaction from people, but rather, you could do that just with shapes and colors!” he said, before beginning his lecture on Monet while everyone had their lunch.

You ended up sharing Dave’s apple tart with everyone else, because he was a dumb butt and couldn’t possibly finish it all. (fight me, Egnerd, he’d threatened, as you passed out slices on paper plates)

Dave was such a lovable dumbass. 

\---

Largely due to one Dave Strider, you were, at the moment, nothing short of red in the face, panting, and in a state of general disarray. 

No, not like that, get your mind out of the gutter. 

The biking part of the bike tour was what you were currently working through. When you’d booked this, you had a picturesque little cycle through the park with your lady by your side. Birds would be chirping, the sky would be dotted with puffy white clouds, and you’d stop every now and then for a photo. 

Instead, Dave insisted on racing you. You caved when he called you a chicken, which is why you were currently at Claude Monet’s house, waiting for the rest of the group to catch up, leaning on Dave. 

"You suck." 

"Only on special occasions," he retorted, fiddling with his camera's lenses.

You grumbled halfheartedly. 

Soon enough, the rest of your group arrived, and you set off. Dave's camera was plastered to his face, mostly, and you had to do the thing where you tugged him away from a particularly interesting subject. 

It was fruitful, and the weather was pleasant, despite all the sweating from your earlier bike race. Your girlf- no, your ex-girlfriend, was into painting and stuff, so she would have liked this. You let out a small mental sigh, and Dave must have noticed, because he nudged you and gave you a small, quick smile. You liked those a lot. 

All at once, it was over, you’d cycled back, and were boarding the train. 

Almost needless to say, the way back was a lot quieter than the way there. It gave you time to think. 

Now, normally you never confronted these things, but there was something _about_ Dave that excited you. Not in that sense. Maybe in that sense. You didn't know. See, this was why you didn't think about this stuff much. 

Your insides always felt a little funny when you thought about Dave, and this feeling had only been heightened as you spent more and more time with him. Four days of Dave. You tried to structure your thoughts a little, even though it was a bit painful.

Did you like Dave? 

Yes, undeniably so. Dave was wonderful, and smart, and funny.

Did you like like Dave?

Hm. You thought about how your heart would jump every time he took your hand, how he sometimes nuzzled your hair, how comfortable you felt when he cuddled you every night. You chalked it down to a maybe. A strong, definite maybe. 

Now.

Did you want to _kiss_ Dave? 

You remembered this morning, and Dave under you, and the ball of something in your stomach, and him grabbing your ass. 

You looked over at Dave, who was leaning his head on the window of the train. He had nice features. His jawline was pretty incredible too. Objectively, he was attractive, there was no denying it. 

You looked at his lips and your heart leapt. They were a little chapped, but pretty full, and you were distinctly aware of your heart rate speeding up, face colouring. You must have made some sort of noise, because Dave looked at you, a little concerned. 

"Everything okay, Egbutt?" he asked.

Your voice caught in your throat. 

"Fine, just need to, use the little boys' room," you managed to stutter out. What was wrong with you?! This was _Dave_. 

Your tour guide pointed you to the restroom on the train and you practically ran in, shutting the door. 

Oh god. You _liked_ Dave. You liked _Dave_. _You_ liked Dave. It was wild any way you phrased it. 

Now, you knew Dave was into dudes, he'd dated a guy once and told you all about it. 

But he was WAY out of your league. He was a bigshot Hollywood producer, and you were just John! 

Besides you weren't GAY. You'd had girlfriends, and you’d slept with some of them. You shut the toilet seat and sat down, thinking. You knew there was more than just straight and gay. There were bisexuals, and asexuals, and a lot of something-sexuals, but you didn't know what you were, and you weren’t sure whether you'd understand anyway. 

Several panicked google searches later, you were still muddled, and even more nervous than you’d before. Someone rapped on the door. 

“You okay in there, buddy?” asked Dave. 

“Fine!” you called back, your voice thankfully not wavering.

You inhaled sharply, trying to compose yourself. Dave wasn’t straight. Maybe he would be able to, at the very least, help you figure yourself out. 

You resolved to ask him later, and proceeded to try and figure out just how you would go about doing that. 

 

\----  
[DAVE]

You were back in your hotel room, and had just finished your shower to find a pajama-d John Egbert frowning at his phone. He looked up at you, brows furrowed. 

"Dave," he started. "What's a pansexual?" 

Oh boy. 

"Is this baby's first sexuality crisis?" you teased, even though your heart was thumping a million miles an hour right now, even though this probably meant nothing. 

"No, shut up," he said, reddening. “This is for, research. For reasons.” he said. 

“For reasons?” you teased. 

He reddened deeper, and looked incredibly uncomfortable, and you almost felt bad. 

"Turn off that phone and I'll tell you all about it, young asshopper," you said, sagely, laying down on your bed. 

"Ew, Dave," he replied, wrinkling his nose, shutting his phone before sitting down next to you. 

"So a pansexual is a person who doesn't care about gender, think, genderblind And before we get there, there's more than two genders, just saying," you began. He nodded, listening seemingly intently. 

You pretty much became your sister for the next half an hour or so, explaining the nebulous nature of human sexuality. If she were here, you’re sure that she’d be crying her inch-thick ivory white foundation off. 

“But the bottom line is, if you don’t identify with something, you don’t identify with something, it’s just an identity, like a box you put yourself in. And you have the rest of your life to figure it out, and if you never do, that’s fine,” you finished. 

John was, to your surprise, still listening intently. 

“Did that help?” you prompted. 

“...Yeah,” he said, after a while, gnawing on his lower lip. 

“And?” you asked. 

“Night, Dave.” he said, turning over, switching his lamp off. 

“You don’t wanna talk about it?” you asked. 

“Not really. That was helpful, though.” he replied, turned away from you. 

Huh. There was only one probable explanation for this. John didn’t want to talk about it. You weren’t going to be a dick and prod him about it, of course, when you had your own love problems to worry about. Did you like John? Did you not?

You exhaled softly and massaged your temples, turning your bedside lamp off. 

One thing was for certain, though. When you curled up to John in your pre-sleep haze, he cuddled back, your legs twining under the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SCREECHING NOISES*
> 
> I haven't updated in forever, I know. I dealt with writing block, mid-years, writing block, an internship, a vacation, a particularly bad breakup, and then more writing block before churning this out.
> 
> I also edited, and got this fic edited quite a bit, and have a beta, my very good internet friend Lau. You can find her at buttonbun.tumblr.com.
> 
> As for the fics I appear to be co-authoring with Astredust (accessible via http://astredust.tumblr.com/), I'm actually just beta-ing for them.
> 
> I experimented with multiple POV switches in this one, just to see how it would work, and the result is this long ass chapter. In addition, I've fleshed out the Rosemary boarding school AU completely, and the first chapter of that will drop with the last chapter of this fic! It's still got, about, 3 - 4 left, so I would say it's in the ballpark from August to around October, if studying for finals doesn't kill me. I also have a Superhero AU oneshot that I'm writing, so keep an eye out for that. Once again, thank you for sticking with this fic and if you have any questions, comments or concerns, hit me up at classpect.tumblr.com! For regular updates on the writing, check out classpects-writingblog.tumblr.com.


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